glasses on the table. ‘Could do worse than taking a look at that pal of his again, the one he called that evening. Milescu? Check him out on Facebook, sites like that. Build up a bit more background, can’t do any harm.’ He winked. ‘Wouldn’t like to see you cutting off your options too soon, getting tunnel vision.’
‘What are you? My manager, all of a sudden?’
Ramsden leaned back, smiling with his eyes. ‘Feels that way sometimes.’
Karen smiled back. ‘You know what?’
‘What?’
‘Bollocks!’
Karen was still wearing the vestiges of a smile when she exited the Tube. Whereas working with Tim Costello was interesting, almost fun, watching him showing off a little, seeing how far he could go, with Ramsden everything was easy, like slipping into a familiar pattern, easing on an old pair of worn gloves. What was that song? ‘An Old Raincoat Won’t Ever Let You Down’. Ramsden was like that. Old and dependable. If distinctly ragged round the edges.
Taking the turning off St Paul’s Road into Highbury Grove, wind pulling at her coat and hair, the first inklings of rain, she noticed the car idling ahead of her, ignorant of the traffic. A Volvo, dark blue, shading into black. As she drew close, it pulled away, then slowed. She logged the number in her head, prepared to cross the street, take defensive action, if necessary run.
When she came alongside the vehicle, it slid forward in tandem, the rear window slipping soundlessly down.
‘Karen.’
It was Burcher. Detective Chief Superintendent Anthony Burcher. She hadn’t known they were on first-name terms.
The rear nearside door opened.
‘Get in.’
The car slid off into traffic, commuters on their way back through Seven Sisters, Stroud Green, Stamford Hill, Edmonton. Farther out there were real fields, paddocks, small orchards, golf courses where you could play a full eighteen holes without having to cross a motorway.
It was close in the back of the car, the heater notched up a few degrees too high; the sweetness of peppermints on Burcher’s breath.
‘Just passing, sir?’
‘Something of the kind.’
In front, the driver swallowed a chuckle, remembering he wasn’t there. See no evil, speak no evil.
‘The Hampstead business, Andronic, something of a breakthrough?’
She told him about the Martins, Terry and Sasha, father and daughter. Her suspicions, unproven.
‘And this Milescu boy, he involved? Seriously, I mean?’
No real reason to think so, sir. No more than peripherally. But I suppose it’s possible.’
‘His father, he was expressing some concern.’
‘To you, sir?’
‘Friends, shall we say, one or two, high places.’
‘I doubt he has reasons to worry.’
‘Good to know. Though of course, if there were anything, anything serious, you might just run it by me.’
‘Of course.’
Burcher nodded, found something interesting through the opposite window. At the crossroads, without being asked, the driver took a left, then left again.
‘Cooperation, resources, you’re getting what you need?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Splendid.’
The car came to a halt some sixty metres from her door.
‘Walk from here?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The rain was starting to fall more heavily, bouncing off the roof of the Volvo as it moved away. It was beginning to look as if Mike Ramsden was right, a little more digging in Ion Milescu’s direction might not go amiss after all.
17
The London College of Communication was a little way south of the river, too close to the monstrous traffic island that is the Elephant and Castle for comfort. For reasons best known to its custodians, much of the frontage was given over to large panels bearing stylishly lit close-ups of a couple passionately kissing. It pays, Karen guessed, to advertise. Amongst a bustle of activity, legions of students were foregathered on the street outside, garbed for the most part like students the world over. She was glad she’d dressed down herself, cotton jacket, sweater, worn jeans, her second-best pair of black Converse. Scuffed leather satchel.
Winter sunshine reflected back off the glass.
Voices raised in greeting. Arms round shoulders. Laughter.
A bus pulling by on its way towards New Cross Gate.
She spotted Ion Milescu walking briskly, winding between small knots of people, rucksack slung over one shoulder.
Karen moved to intercept him and as she did so he stopped to talk to two fellow students, the man seemingly African, the girl Chinese.
‘Ion …’
At first he didn’t recognise her, a face seen out of context.
‘I just need a word.’
‘I’ve got a class.’
‘A quick coffee, that’s all.’
‘I don’t know.’ He seemed flustered, uneasy.
‘Look,’ the African said, ‘if he doesn’t want to speak with you …’
‘No,’ Milescu said, ‘it’s all right.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Sure.’
The African shrugged — ‘Catch you later’ — tapped the Chinese girl on the shoulder and they walked away.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ Karen asked.
What she was hoping for was a little pop-up espresso bar run by a couple of Kiwis working their way round the world; what she got was a tired cafe between a launderette and a newsagent’s, on a small row of premises laid back from the main road; a greasy spoon that had moved some way to catering for its increasing student population, then stalled. Paninis alongside fry-ups; soya milk cappuccinos and mugs of tea you could stand a spoon in.
Karen played safe with an Americano; Ion Milescu a Pepsi.
‘A few things,’ Karen said, ‘have come to light since we talked last. I just wanted to make sure I’ve got the right end of the stick.’
‘What kind of things?’ He was looking off in the direction of the counter, the far wall, anywhere but at her.
‘You and Petru, for instance, from what you said before, you didn’t know him very well at all.’
‘That’s right.’
‘A few kickabouts and stuff like that.’
‘Right.’
